


Silences

by aces



Category: Invisible Man
Genre: Gen, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-16
Updated: 2010-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-06 08:47:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aces/pseuds/aces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darien's night, after a long day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silences

I vividly remember the first time I was in a car accident.  I was eighteen, driving one night for the hell of it and probably to get away from home, when I crossed another street on a yellow light.  I think I was changing the radio station, trying to find a good song.  And all of a sudden there's a _whoomp_ from the passenger side, the steering wheel's out of my hands, I'm yelling, the car's spinning uncontrollably...and then it's over.  The radio's still playing, unconcerned by what had just occurred, while everything else is covered in this layer of shaken silence.  It's the same silence you hear after a bomb goes off, after your girlfriend screams out something terrible and irreversible in a fight, after you see yourself turn invisible for the first time.

The car was a wreck.  I wasn't much better emotionally, though physically I was remarkably free from injury.  So was the other guy, a couple years older than me and just slightly drunk.  He sobered up fast.  A fire truck showed up, and an ambulance and about five million police cars, lights flashing everywhere and blinding me in the darkness.  And all I could think was, "I did this.  I caused all this."  My hands were shaking.  My chest was killing me where the seatbelt had grabbed and pulled at me.  I wanted to sit down and cry--but of course I didn't.  I wasn't a wuss.  Besides which, I had the panicked feeling that if I _did_ cry, I wouldn't ever be able to stop.

I declined going in the ambulance, calling my brother to bail me out instead.  He insisted on taking me to the hospital, waiting impatiently while they took X-rays and gave me painkillers and strict instructions for a follow-up visit.  He lectured me the whole drive home too, telling me how stupid I was, while I just sat there in shaken silence.  But he didn't say anything to our aunt and uncle till after I was ready to tell them what had happened.

Lately I've been feeling like my whole life's a succession of car crashes.  Spinning out of control.  My fault.  Afraid of letting any emotion go in case I can't stop.  The silence that comes after a violent experience.

I toss my keys onto the counter, closing the front door behind me with my foot.  I hadn't bothered checking my mail; I can pick it up before work in the morning.  I'm tired.  Bobby, Alex, and I just wrapped up a case this evening, nothing spectacular, for once no one getting hurt.  They'd been joking around before I left the Agency, insulting each other in that uncomfortable way that sometimes left me wondering if they were joking or not.  They were gonna see if Claire wanted to go to dinner with them.  I had declined the invitation.  I was tired.

And now all I want to do is get in the shower.  I have a headache, temples pounding dully in time with my heartbeat.  The kind of headache that leaves you moving carefully, as if you're made of the most delicate glass, and the slightest thing--too loud a sound, too harsh a touch--can make you shatter.  The kind of headache that makes you nauseous, the pain somehow traveling all the way from the top of your head to the pit of your stomach.  Seasickness and airsickness combined.  Thinking, moving, simply living, becomes a chore.

I fumble with the buttons on my shirt, the little disks catching at my fingers and refusing to cooperate.  I slip off my shoes, socks, and pants much more easily, but still with that deliberate slowness, still afraid I will break.

The hot water on my face and chest, running down my legs, feels good, warm and safe and soothing.  I lather soap into my hands, trying not to breathe in the cloying scent I usually like in case I upset the precarious control I have over my stomach.  I'd kept the lights off in my bathroom.  I find it helps with my _really_ bad headaches.  I lean against the wall, too exhausted to stand on my own, ready to slide down to the bottom of the shower and fall asleep right there.

But I force myself to turn the water off and step out of the stall, shivering in the sudden cold from the other side of the curtain, goose bumps popping up out of nowhere.  Still I can't be bothered to hurry as I pull on a comfortable pair of flannel pajama bottoms and a nonmatching top.  The most comforting clothes I have.  I feel better wearing them, like a little kid, as I pad out of the bathroom barefoot.

Food still isn't appealing.  The lights are off in my apartment as well; I hadn't felt any particular need to turn them on when I came in and I still don't now.  I lie down on the bed in the soothing darkness and wait to fall asleep, to ease the horrible ache in my head.  But sleep eludes me.  Physically I'm drained; mentally my brain refuses to let go, trudging on mindlessly like a foot soldier ordered to keep marching.  My thoughts turn where they always go whenever I have a spare moment to think.

Sometimes I feel like a child when I use the quicksilver gland.  When I'm invisible.  I feel perversely safe.  _If I hide, they won't find me.  And I can stay hidden where no one will ever see me_.  I can eavesdrop too, on the grown-ups' conversations, like the too-serious kid that creeps about unseen and unnoticed but hears everything said about him.  It's like I'm disconnected from the entire world when I'm quicksilvered, as if nothing out there can hurt me anymore 'cos I'm on a different level or something.  The gland gives me a curious feeling of childish invulnerability.  It's almost comforting in that way.  Until I get hurt anyway.

Of course, the gland also isolates me.  A wall of silence seems to surround me whenever I'm quicksilvered, like I'm living one of those old silent black and white movies that aren't really black and white.  The silence is a barrier I can't cross, adding to my disconnected-from-the-whole-world feeling--even if it's Bobby, or Claire, I still can't reach across the silence, the quicksilver colorless vision, the invisibility.  I wonder if that wall of silence was always there separating me from everyone else and I just never noticed it, or if the quicksilver gland has created a new barrier for me.

The headache pulses, sometimes fading out completely, only to come back stronger, more insistent, more painful.  If I lie perfectly still on the covers of my bed and keep my eyes lightly closed against the darkness of the room it hurts less.  The silence in the room is soothing, covering me like a blanket, warm and reassuring.  I wish I _were_ a little kid again, home sick from school, so my mother could tuck me in, brush my hair away from my forehead, sit by my side until I fall asleep.  But I've been taking care of myself for years, and she's been gone even longer.

I think that if I can just stop thinking, my head will stop hurting.  But still my thoughts march on, almost orderly for once, not the usual leap, spin, and bound that I'm used to.  Simple, stupid thoughts--mundane.  The thoughts are comforting in their triviality, just as comforting as the soft pair of pajamas, the silence of the apartment.  I've grown used to the silence in my life and I'll take whatever comfort I can get.  At last I fall asleep, dreaming about the silence that comes after a car crash, spinning out of control and unable to stop it.


End file.
